Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (35 page)

“It is begun,” he said respectfully. “The
pieces of the game have been placed upon the board and set into
motion. All has gone as you desired.”

He sensed pleasure in the vastness of
that other
, and too, he sensed a question.

“No,” he answered. “It was only a minor
difficulty. Merely an unanticipated incident that turned into a
momentary setback. It was all caused by a rather insignificant
mortal, a young man with considerable power of his own, but still
nothing compared to that which you have granted me. He blundered
into the midst of things, and I had to change my tactics for a
short while. But in the end your desires were fulfilled. Your
enemies believe themselves to be momentarily victorious, and they
foolishly look to my stupid father as their primary source of
danger. All has essentially gone as planned. I have served you
well, my lord.”

He sensed pleasure in
that other
again. And then, his heart pounding rapidly in anticipation, he
sensed that a reward was due. It came slowly at first, and then it
came in a flood.
That other
brushed him with just the merest
touch of the infinitely exquisite hatred that Valso so longed to
caress, the wondrously malignant evil that would someday be his
eternal reward, the power, the cruelty, the enmity that was
that
other
, his master of masters, his lord, his king, his
god
. And Valso carried that touch joyously with him to his
dreams.

Morgin rode hard all that day. He followed
the road out of the valley that led northeast to Kallun’s gorge,
and he never paused, never rested, but drove himself to the limit
of his endurance, trying to achieve a state of exhaustion that
would wash away the anger and frustration of Olivia’s public
condemnation. His ride became a race. The news of his alleged
cowardice was spreading somewhere ahead of him, travelling swiftly
from ear to ear. He knew he could not rest until he caught up with
it, and passed it, for until then he would see nothing but disgust
in the eyes of every clansman he met. It was not until
mid-afternoon that he realized he chased a phantom that could never
be caught, and in the process, like a damn fool, he was riding his
horse to death.

He halted then, stopped at a small mountain
brook to water and rest the animal. He must be more careful, walk
it for a while, alternate between walking and riding as a good
horseman should on a long trail. But to his surprise he found the
horse rather calm, and seemingly indifferent to the grueling pace
he’d set for it. It was a coal-black horse, with no distinguishing
marks on its coat. He looked into its eyes—they were even blacker
than its coat, if that was possible—and they stared back at him as
if boring deeply into his soul. Morgin cringed under that gaze, as
if there was an intelligence behind those eyes greater than that of
any horse. He had the feeling he could set any pace for this horse,
ride it for any length of time, and when he was done, it would
still be ready to ride further.

He shook himself, looked away from the horse
and the feeling passed. He was imagining things. It was just a
horse, like any other horse in the Elhiyne stables. Perhaps not as
gentle as poor SarahGirl, but still just a horse.

He looked at it again, and again it looked
back, and again that odd feeling came over him. A name suddenly
came to mind: Mortiss, the DeathWalker.

He shook himself again. He was letting his
imagination get the best of him with foolish waking dreams of some
strange horse with an odd name. “Just a horse,” he mumbled as he
mounted up and rode on.

He was high in the Worshipers now on the
trail to Kallun’s gorge. The sun was getting lower on the horizon
as darkness approached. Snow blanketed the landscape on either side
of the trail. The air held a chill that cut through Morgin’s tunic,
and he was forced to bundle his cloak tightly about him. He
wondered if the damn horse felt the cold as he did.

It snorted suddenly, as if to say,
Of
course not, you fool.

He’d never been this high in the pass
before. He’d spent many a day in the Worshipers hunting and fishing
with his brothers and cousins, but that had always been in the
forests that carpeted the lower slopes. Never before had he been
allowed to go higher, to ride above the tree line and attain the
summit of the pass. Olivia had never trusted him sufficiently to
allow him to cross the mountains. It was a sore point between them,
for while his brothers and cousins had all made the trip at least
once, Morgin had never been beyond the fields and valleys west of
the mountains, and for years he’d had to be content with stories of
the vast forests to the east, and the Plains of Quam, and beyond
that the Great Munjarro Waste.

He knew he’d probably not see them this time
either. He rode now to war, though he had no idea what he would do
when he got there. It was unfair, unjust, even more so since the
traitorous slut Rhianne would probably go unpunished. But even if
no one else knew of her treachery, he did, and he vowed now that if
he ever returned she would pay with her life for going to Valso’s
bed.

“Halt,” someone cried from the brush at the
edge of the trail. Morgin pulled his horse to a stop and waited,
careful to keep his hand away from the hilt of his sword. Directly
in front of him a single man stepped into the trail. He held a
sword in one hand and stood confidently blocking the trail. Morgin
recognized him, though not by name; he was a sergeant-of-men that
Morgin had seen about the castle occasionally.

The man peered carefully at Morgin’s face,
and after a moment his features relaxed and he said, “You’re Lord
Morgin, are you not?”

Morgin answered with a flat “Yes.”

The man turned to the side of the trail and
shouted, “It’s all right. He’s Elhiyne. I recognize him.” There
came some rustling in the brush, then all was still again. The man
stepped to one side of the trail and said, “You may pass.”

Morgin hesitated. “You have the advantage of
me.”

The man bowed at the waist. “Forgive me,
your lordship. I’m Abileen. May I ask if you bring word from
Elhiyne?”

Morgin shook his head. “I bring no word. How
much farther to the gorge?”

“Around the next bend in the trail, my lord.
Do you intend to cross?”

Morgin nodded.

Abileen frowned. He looked back down the
trail and asked, “Where are your men, my lord?”

Morgin shrugged. “I’m alone. And I would
prefer that you keep my identity to yourself.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Morgin said, then spurred his
horse up the trail.

It was near sunset when, a few minutes
later, he caught his first sight of Kallun’s gorge, a deep slash in
the earth cut directly across the trail. It was no more than a
hundred paces wide, but its depth was far beyond measure. It was
said to have been created during the last of the Great Clan Wars by
the
god
Kallun. According to legend he had created it as a
defensive barrier against the Benesh’ere. Morgin wondered at such a
legend, for if he was truly a
god
he had no need of a
defense against mortals. He could merely have willed that the
Benesh’ere no longer exist, and the war would have been done. Most
legends had such holes in their credibility.

The gorge, though, was impressive. Its walls
were sheer, unmarked rock, as if sliced into the earth by a giant
sword. Morgin wondered if anyone had ever tried to scale those
walls, but it was merely a thought, for he would not be the one to
volunteer for such a task.

The gorge cut directly across the pass at
its summit. The trail that Morgin followed led straight to a
massive stone bridge that was the only means of crossing the gorge.
But the bridge itself was barely wide enough for a single man or
horse, and while the once rounded surface had been flattened by
stone masons for surer footing, and rails had been added as
protection against a chance misstep, the bridge still remained a
fearful passage.

The bridge was considerably lower than the
lip of the gorge. Morgin was forced to dismount and lead his horse
down a steep and treacherous incline to reach the bridge. Out on
the bridge itself he was infinitely grateful for the handrails on
either side, for while the footing was sure, the path was narrow,
and his imagination painted a vivid picture of what it would mean
to fall.

On the other side he led Mortiss up another
incline and paused at the lip, looking back on the bridge. With the
handrails removed, a dozen archers could defend that bridge against
an army, an army that would be forced to run down one incline,
across the bridge, and up another incline; all on foot and in
single file. Now he understood why Illalla would not try to cross
the Worshipers at Kallun’s gorge, even though it was much closer to
Elhiyne than Sa’umbra.

“Good even’, traveler.”

Morgin started, spun, found a grizzled old
retainer facing him. The man seemed to have stepped out of nowhere.
“Yer headed the wrong direction,” the old fellow said.

“Is there a place where I can rest?” Morgin
asked. “And feed my horse?”

“Aye.” The old man jerked his head to one
side. “This way.” He stepped off the trail into a dark shadow
between two large boulders.

Morgin followed. In the gathering gloom of
sunset he could see little in the shadows, but the sound of the old
man’s footsteps guided him nicely. They emerged into a large level
space, sheltered on all sides by rock walls and boulders. Masons
had cut a shelf into the rock for seating, and three men huddled
against the cold there, savoring the warmth of a fire. Four more
lay on the ground, rolled in their blankets and sleeping near
another fire.

“I’ll take care of your horse,” the old man
whispered. “Why don’t you sit by the fire and warm yourself.”

Morgin did just that, taking a spot by the
three seated men. They acknowledged him with a nod, but said
nothing out of courtesy for the men sleeping nearby.

The fire felt good. It was warm and bright,
and it took much of the chill out of his bones. He found he could
lean back against the rock wall and still feel its warmth. His
muscles relaxed. The tension came out of his shoulders and he
closed his eyes to rest for just a moment.

~~~

Morgin awoke with a gasp, his heart pounding
in his throat. He jumped to his feet, sword drawn, waves of terror
washing over him. Directly in front of him the fire had dwindled to
dull glowing embers. Gone were the men who had been seated next to
him, and too, those who had been asleep. Alone, he peered into the
darkness and prepared to defend himself against some unknown
danger. But as his heart slowed and his breathing calmed, he
realized it had all been only a dream, a very bad dream, but still
only a dream.

He sighed heavily, slid his sword into its
sheath, then sat back down on the stone bench. He tried to recall
the dream, but it came back to him only in small bits and pieces.
He remembered riding a great horse, a charger bred for strength in
battle. It was the kind of war-horse rarely seen in his day, an
animal out of the past, like those depicted on the walls of the old
castle. The horse had been arrayed in livery of the most expensive
kind, and Morgin, astride the great steed in his dream, had looked
down at his own hands and arms to find them clothed in silks and
fine linens. The material had been bordered by gold and silver
thread, with here and there a jewel sewn in for sparkle. His dream
had been so vivid he could remember the weight of heavy chain mail
on his legs, arms, and back. He had worn a full suit of it beneath
the silk and linen, something he could never have afforded in
anything but a dream. On his head rested a helmet studded with more
jewels, and at his side hung a great broadsword, a sword that
jogged his memory as if he’d seen it before in another dream,
another time and another place.

But this had been a good dream, not the kind
of dream to make him awake trembling with fear. In his finery he
had ridden among a vast army and they’d cheered him. They’d bowed
at his feet and called him sire, asking his blessing and swearing
their allegiance to him. It hadn’t been a bad dream, at least not
what he could remember of it. But he realized there were parts of
it that were lost to him. Perhaps the dream had changed in some way
that now he could not recall.

The old man spoke from out of the darkness.
“Would yer lordship like some porridge?”

“No, thank you,” Morgin said, trying to
locate the voice in the gloom beyond the light of the fire,
wondering if he should be angry at Abileen for telling the old man
his identity.

“Are you sure, milord?” The old man stepped
into the light and tossed another log onto the dying embers. Sparks
erupted upward. “It’s hot, milord, and thick. And what you don’t
eat I’m throwin’ into the gorge. No sense savin’ it fer Decouix
scum.”

Morgin’s stomach growled. He couldn’t
remember the last time he’d eaten, and the porridge suddenly
sounded awfully good. “I think I will have some,” he said. “But
what’s this you say about the Decouixs? They’re coming here?”

“Aye, milord. About sunup. But we’ve got
plenty of time before then. You just sit back. I’ll get yer
porridge, and maybe we can find some sugar to go with it.”

“Thank you,” Morgin said, feeling better.
“Thank you. Oh! One more thing. Has there been any word from
Elhiyne?”

“No, milord. None.”

“How long ago did the sun set?”

“More than two hours, milord.”

Morgin nodded and the old man left.

Later he learned that the old man’s name was
Durado. He and his only son Samull lived near the gorge where they
maintained a way-station for travelers. Morgin remembered the depth
of snow that still lay by the side of the trail, and thought that
the old man and his son must lead a solitary and hard life.